


Doyle School for Girls

by avawtsn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Case Fic, F/F, Female John Watson, Female Sherlock Holmes, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Femlock, Genderbending, Mutual Pining, POV Jane Watson, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rule 63, Teenagers, Teenlock, Unresolved Sexual Tension, fleeting references to suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1954002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avawtsn/pseuds/avawtsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Jane are going to get through sixth form together if it kills them. A femlock, teenlock boarding school AU. Eventual Johnlock (Janelock). No one under 16 in this story. Rampant genderbending of most, if not all, of the men from BBC Sherlock canon.</p><p>Multichapter WIP, begun for Exchangelock 2014 as a gift fic to Cartwheelrobin, who expressed an appreciation for fem!John. I hope I did okay on that count.</p><p>Betaed heroically by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/causidicus/pseuds/causidicus/">Anna (Causidicus)</a>. Woefully unbritpicked. All mistakes are mine.</p><p>Note on ratings: currently rated T, but will probably become rated M once smut happens. If explicit language (cursing) is enough to turn this fic into a higher rating, it's probably an M already because Jane's got a filthy mouth. Tags will be updated as they become relevant. Warnings for these things to come by the chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doyle School for Girls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cartwheelrobin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cartwheelrobin/gifts).



> Lots of people have helped me think through this fic, but first and foremost I have to thank Anna ([a-causidicus](http://a-causidicus.tumblr.com/)/[causidicus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/causidicus/pseuds/causidicus/)), my stupendous beta who's put up with me panicking, squeeing, giving up, rewriting, writing outlines _instead_ of fic, and being generally angsty about the whole longfic process. Thank you for always, always being patient with me. 
> 
> I also owe a lot of my sanity to [LSiT](http://loudest-subtext-in-television.tumblr.com), [Ashley](http://guixonlove.tumblr.com/), [Elly](http://bilbos-pantaloons.tumblr.com/), [D](http://queersherlockian.tumblr.com/), [Meg](http://forsciencejohn.tumblr.com/), [Shannon](http://penns-woods.tumblr.com/), [Ellen](http://3garridebs.tumblr.com/) and I'm sure other people who have indulged me venting about this fic on twitter and encouraged me _anyway_. Truly, I love you all.
> 
> Special thanks also to [welovethebeekeeper](http://welovethebeekeeper.tumblr.com/) for the bit about Stamford's Geordie accent and [geeoharee](http://twitter.com/geeoharee) for talking to me about English girlspeak. All other mistakes are my own.
> 
> And no thank you whatsoever to Martin Freeman who, during the month of exchangelock writing, decided to grow a beard and distract me with his nightly Richard III stage door photos.

Two more years. Two more _years_ of this shite.

Jane once again reflects that for someone so technically young, she feels very, very old.

-

"Jane. Jane Watson!"

Jane stops in her tracks and turns toward the vaguely northern accent. Or Brummie? Shit, it's going to take a while to not feel like a tourist.

A heavyset girl in an emerald cardigan is nodding at her, waving at her to come closer. "It's me, Michelle. Michelle Stamford? We went to primary together."

Newcastle Geordie. Damn it.

"Right, right, of course," Jane says, as she starts shifting the books in her right to her left. Before she quite manages it, Michelle walks up and hugs her.

"Oh, I know, you must not have recognised me! I was only in London the one year and I'm about three times as much girl as I was in grade school and barely any taller," Michelle babbles, blush working its way up her apple cheeks. She gestures vaguely at her body, apologetic smile sitting crookedly on her face. "Damn, must be something like six years now, innit? Do you go here now?"

"Oh, no, I just...I mean, yes, I do. I just had my mind on other things. Sorry," Jane says guiltily. "I just met with the headmistress and I'm being knocked back to the lower sixth, and I'm just...this wasn't how I had planned things when I came back."

"That's _right_ ," Michelle says, eyes wide. "Last I heard you went off to take care of your dying grandmother, was it? How did that go?"

"She died."

Michelle shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Right. Sorry."

"She'd been ill for many years," Jane says. The words come out practised and worn. Michelle's smile flickers uncomfortably.

"Say, let's grab a milkshake or something, yeah? Give us time to catch up and me to do something other than put my foot in my mouth." Michelle gestures past the iron gates.

Jane bites her lip. New schedule to plan out, books to return, Harry to deal with. And is there a free five quid in her wallet?

"Fuck it, lead the way. Have they got different flavours? I could really go for a mint chocolate chip."

-

"So you're back from being Stateside, yeah?" Michelle asks over her vanilla monstrosity of a shake. It isn't so much large as it is tall, so she has to crane her neck to get her mouth over the straw.

"Yep," Jane answers, pushing a chocolate chip around her glass with her own straw. "Yes, been back all of a month now. Gran died and I spent the summer helping my aunt with her estate. And now I'm back in England." _As if I never left_. Two more sodding years.

"You living with Harry then? Or are you boarding?"

God, even Michelle remembers Harry. "Yes, well, living with Harry at the moment." Jane fidgets with the button on her blazer.

"And how's that going?"

The smile Jane attempts doesn't feel natural. "About as well as you'd expect. Harry's flat isn't exactly kitted out for two people." She lets out a long, self-pitying sigh. "I'd love to board, but was told there's no space."

Michelle picks up her milkshake and tilts it to her mouth. The beginnings of a smile turn up the corner of her lips.

"What?" Jane feels compelled to ask.

Michelle swallows and rolls her eyes good naturedly. "Yes, well, they _would_ tell you that, wouldn't they? There's precisely one free bed in the girls' dormitories, but it's as good as unavailable. I'm sure they didn't want to tell you about it just to save you the trouble of moving out of it a week later."

"What? Why would I do that?"

"Well, everyone else has."

Michelle looks so content to not say another word, sipping innocently on her straw, it's positively grating on Jane's nerves. "And...why is that?"

"Not why," Michelle says, all apple cheeks and crooked smile. "Who."

 

****

 

Even when Sherlock walks briskly, it's still a twelve minute trek from the dorms to the swimming pool; seventeen from the music building. It's a bit of a solitary climb, through the winding stone paths of the school grounds, past the administration building and faculty mews. In fact, unless cutting through the grass up a steep hill, the walking path leads onto a torturously scenic tour of the south lawn, for all of the green nothing that's there to admire.

She makes her way up to the hill, as per usual at this time of day. She hurries, if only to more quickly pass by the stragglers making their way to the dining hall in the opposite direction. If nothing else, it makes for an acceptable warm-up before doing laps, though Sherlock doesn't much subscribe to stifling conventions like warm-ups.

The top of the hill offers a view of the asphalt and wildflower oval that forms the roundabout in front of the main building. Ms. Jimenez is stubbornly clinging to the end of summer and has her office window cracked still. Through it, Sherlock can hear the high and excited voice of a young woman, sight unseen, punctuated with the thin, soothing tones of another woman Sherlock recognises as her house headmaster.

In the guest parking spot to the side of the oval, normally occupied by the likes of Mycroft's black Jaguar, is the incongruous sight of a lightweight scooter. Streaks of red accent the mostly black motorbike, though a film of dust and road grime grey the plastic and leather both. Fifty cc engine or no, it looks like it might be fun to take a ride on, but Sherlock quickly shelves the idea. She isn't likely to own one anytime soon. The idea of tormenting Mycroft with the request, though, puts a small, fleeting smile on her face.

 

****

 

"So you admit," Jane says, triumphant, "that there _is_ a bed available. You allow that my grades and scholarship and matriculation at this school give me a place in boarding if I so choose--"

"Yes, but Jane, dear--" Mrs. Hudson tries to cut in.

"You ad _mit_ these things, I _do_ so choose, and therefore I _will_ be moving in!" Jane finishes. "As soon as I'm able," she adds.

"What I've been trying to explain to you though, dear--"

"Tomorrow," Jane cuts in again, because she's feeling bold. She's never interrupted an adult this much in her life, and she'd be mortified if it weren't giving her such a _rush_.

"Tomorrow?" Mrs. Hudson repeats skeptically. "Both you and your roommate have classes tomorrow. Wouldn't you rather put it off until the weekend when you don't have," she looks down at a sheet of paper in her hand, "triple chemistry to contend with?"

"The sooner I'm able to move in, the sooner I'll be ready to catch up in the AS classes I'm having to take," Jane retorts. "It's bad enough that I've been taking the wrong courses for three weeks," she mutters.

Mrs. Hudson visibly relents, shoulders rounding as she sighs. "All right then, if you insist. I'll make arrangements to have your keys available in the morning."

She starts rummaging around in a filing cabinet and finally pulls out a dormitory guidebook, the embossed school crest catching the light as she opens it up the table of contents. Thin fingers flatten out the book and then reorient it so that Jane can read it as Mrs. Hudson points to things in it.

And it's then that Jane feels like she can sit a little further back in her seat. It's then that she feels for the first time in months that she's _done_ something, instead of dealing with things done to her and around her and for her. Listening to Mrs. Hudson prattle on about curfews, toiletries, and visitors, Jane allows herself to sit back in this leather wingback that must be older than her and she feels, for the moment, satisfied.

 

****

 

When Sherlock arrives at the pool, it's deserted, which is normal, and dark, which is not. None of the overhead lights are on, which signals a completely dead day today for swimming if cleaning staff thought to close the pool already. But fair enough; it's early enough in the school year that even swim club has not organised yet. Very few people are using the pool at this time of year. Which leaves Sherlock.

Unilluminated, the pool is an undisturbed planet, a touch of alien foreboding in the chlorine air. No visible ripples in the water, so it looks deceptively solid, colour a mute and dull purple like cloudy chalcedony. She could find the lightswitch if she wanted, but she finds she likes the novel feel of the place, this secret and strange thing that's hers for the moment and no one else's, hers to disturb and dip into. _And drown_ , her mind supplies. Something poetic about the alliteration of it. Not that that explains the rest of the thought: _Petechial haemorrhaging, asphyxiation, oxygen deprivation, brain death. Water in the lungs. A painful way to die_. She pushes the thought down and to the side. No drowning today. She comes here for the silence and solitude; the darkness is simply fitting.

The trip to the pool fulfils one more thing, and that's exhaustion. After a dozen laps, it's as dark as it gets in the light pollution of London, but inside the pool is abruptly aglow. The underwater lights have come on, striping bright electric lines across the pool at regular intervals. She finds it makes it easier to keep track of where she is in the water. The pool water's dull shade of puce is now closer to cyan, closer to the shade of bioluminescent bacteria she grew last year before Sabrina Wilkes turned her over to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock allows herself three quarters of a lap to think back on the bacteria, the pretty shade they were before they were dumped unceremoniously down the toilet.

Another dozen or two more laps and Sherlock's brain is starting to quiet at last, feel somewhat smoother in her skull. Even the ambient hum of her mind sounds rounder in tone, as her muscles start to ache in earnest. It's management, this. Always one or the other with her: burning or drowning, one piston firing while another lines itself up. It's always the next thing, the next combustion. Very few things are conducive to quiet, to order, but the rhythm of the water is one of those things. It's something about the tempo of a good swim: hovering around a slow _larghetto_ , like Beethoven's violin concerto in D, Op. 61, naturally playing in the waves.

When she exits the pool, her legs are a pleasant sort of jelly, a familiar burn working its way up her thighs, through her torso, and flaming out through her lateral dorsi. She feels like she’s giving off lactic acid in fumes. When she nearly stumbles on the way to the locker room, a vision of a knobby newborn giraffe flits past her mind's eye. No one around to see, but she tries to right her gait: remember she is taller now than she ever has been, know in her bones that she is thin and reedy in her post-pubescent body, not the invisible girl she once was, or at least once believed herself to be. If nothing else, people see a long body like hers and expect a certain kind of elegance and grace; the least she could work on is the appearance of sufficient confidence to drive it. She doesn't feel particularly womanly, but she could settle for adult.

The walk back to the dorms is cold and damp, the worst of a grey English summer. She feels bone tired, stomach burning softly on empty, muscles ready to give. But back in her room, she's awake and whirring again. Seated at her desk, her eyes sting in the lamplight, but she knows already that sleep won't come easy.

Well after midnight, she takes a break from the chemistry textbook Mycroft sent her and tries lying down. It's another two hours of fitful turning, lights turning off and on and finally back on again with a frustrated sigh, and half-hearted corrections in the margins before she nods off, lamplight still on, face down in the bosom of a university course book. She dreams of nothing and wakes up tired.

 

****

 

The zip broke on the luggage Jane brought from the States. There's Harry's things randomly mixed in with Jane's half-unpacked boxes somehow, so there's unpacking _and_ packing. And Jane can't find her oversized duffel in a flat the size of a postage stamp. At this point, she can't find her damn laptop bag and she saw it not less than 15 minutes ago. In her _hands_.

"You're fuckin' joking, they didn't tell you about an available bed in a damn suite because the person in it's some kinda twat? Is that even legal? You have a scholarship for fuck's sake, it's supposed to cover room and board." Harry sits up abruptly. "Do you think we should contact a solicitor?"

"Harry," Jane says, pinching the bridge of her nose in an effort to stave off a headache. "Darling sister. Please. If you aren't going to help me pack, could you at least not just sit there and make me go over what you already know? Please?"

"Oh you big baby, it isn't like you have loads of stuff to pack now, have you?" Harry whips herself off the sofa and goes to hug Jane around the waist. "Oh my baby sister, it feels like you only just got here yesterday. And now you're leavin' again."

Harry's face is buried in Jane's shoulder so she allows herself a roll of her eyes. "That doesn't sound at all like what you were saying Thursday, you ninny. You have the memory of a goldfish." Even so, Jane hugs back, something clenching tight in her chest as Harry's citrus shampoo fills her nostrils. Freshly showered, mint mouthwash.

 _You take care of yourself_ is on the tip of her tongue and all the un-baby-sister-like thoughts that have always surrounded that phrase, when Harry suddenly pulls back, eyes shiny, voice bright. "Well then, what's your last meal gonna be? You feel like a curry?"

Jane sighs. Packing will just have to continue tomorrow morning if Harry's bent on vindaloo, seeing as how Mahmoud's doesn't do takeaway. "You don't have to make it sound like I'm going to get executed, you know. I'm moving into a dorm, not prison."

"You say that now, but this roommate of yours sounds like a _punishment_." Harry's nose crinkles in disgust. "What is she, some kind of horribly bitchy slag? Maybe she smells, yeah? Like she doesn't shower, or she has...flatulence problems." She dissolves into giggles and Jane purses her lips to keep from cracking a smile. "Maybe that's why Stinky needs a suite to herself when everyone else is in communal rooms. Fart breath. _Eau de_ toilet, you know?"

Jane shoves her gently away, shaking her head. "You keep on making my stomach turn like this and I'll send Stinky after you, you know," Jane warns, mouth twitching to keep back a smile.

Harry drops her jaw in in mock indignation. "You wouldn't. No no no, you keep Stinky away from me. Lock her up tight in your cosy little suite."

"Oh no, I'll send her to you while you're working so you'll have no choice but to wait on her," Jane threatens, grinning now. "And I'll tell her to tell you: _Jane sent me_."

Harry throws a hoodie from the arm of the sofa at Jane's head, which she narrowly ducks. Jane immediately regrets it. That hoodie that just landed in Harry’s collection of dust bunnies was Jane’s only clean one and she groans at the thought. Shall she add laundry to the list then?

With mock anger, she starts in toward Harry to push her back into the sofa and tickle her. Target: ribs. Big sisters and their weaknesses. A little sister knows.

"No, no, stop! Uncle!" Harry shrieks, laughing, pulling her leg up defensively. Jane stills her hands and smiles softly at Harry, who’s still catching her breath.

"Vindaloo then?"

"Excellent idea," Harry beams.

"It was yours," Jane rolls her eyes.

"Yeah? Like I said. Excellent idea."

 

****

 

Breakfast in the dining hall is appallingly processed or greasy or both, so Sherlock settles for an overripe banana, milkless granola, and three cubes of gruyere that she swipes from Angelo's station when he isn't looking. She indulges in two cups of sweet, black coffee before the start of morning term.

It is the last half hour of triple maths before she speaks for the first time that day.

"Miss Holmes?"

Sherlock looks up from her textbook on medieval dissection, noting her place. Not the usual Dr. Cochran after all, but an older woman, expression like an appraiser at an antiques market. Substitute or guest lecturer? Sherlock can't recall whether sixth formers get substitute teachers or not.

“Present,” Sherlock says, giving a more exaggerated wave of her hand, which usually suffices.

"Yes, I gathered that from when we did roll call at the beginning of class." The corner of the woman's thin mouth turns up in amusement. “By any chance," she says with the air of someone who is not guessing, "are you Mycroft Holmes’ sibling?"

“I’m his younger sister,” Sherlock fills in. Call it what it is, something smaller than a sibling, some precious thing to be squirreled away and protected from the world. For all that this is meant to be an excellent school, despite them apparently letting imbeciles teach here, it's not where Mycroft went.

“I taught your brother at Eton,” she says. _Obvious_ is on the tip of Sherlock's tongue, but the prickle of fifteen sets of eyeballs cuts it out from under her. “Went on to Cambridge, did he?”

“Yes,” Sherlock grits out. The class is buzzing minorly here and there, movement and whispers distracting her. Petra Wainwright is sniggering unattractively at something Felicity Anderson has whispered in her ear.

"And followed your lord father into public service?"

Sherlock stiffens, feels her posture go rigid without her consent. It's a brief struggle to relax it back down to something natural and neutral. It is a more difficult struggle to not imagine herself as flayed open as the cadavers in her book.

“Nominally. He works in government,” Sherlock answers finally, clipped and flat. The woman pauses, nodding, and goes back to the papers in her hand. The tittering in the class crests and ebbs into white noise.

Sherlock spends the rest of the class writing experiment notes for the afternoon's chemistry section, alternating between English and German. The teacher does not call on her again. Sherlock never did learn her name.

 

****

 

In the end, the zip won't budge at all, so Jane tapes up the luggage and uses it to physically cart her things to her new lodgings. Harry is no help this morning, dead asleep and reeking of celebratory Singhas when Jane leaves, for all the noise she makes when she drags all her worldly possessions to the taxi. Jane checks she’s sleeping on her side, kisses her forehead, and closes the door.

At the school, the cabbie gives her a pitying look as he helps her unload it to the kerb but speeds away as soon as he’s paid. From there, it's multiple trips to get her things inside the main foyer, just inside the door, and then many more exhausting trips to her second floor room.

She gets a few looks from passersby, students on their way to class or lunch, and between the sweat and the taped-together-luggage, she must look like a damn hobo. But during a bathroom break on her third trip up the stairs, she confirms it’s much worse. She catches herself in the mirror and realises between her spiked up bedhead, running eye makeup, and luggage, she looks more like an escaped mental patient who'd gotten lost at Heathrow and then been forgotten about during the Thatcher administration.

As soon as she unpacks her things onto the bed, she bins the luggage just so she doesn't have to see it anymore.

The room is lovely, she can hardly believe it. Can hardly believe she was this close to not being here. It's dusty and a basic rectangular box of a room with furniture laid out in a boring, institutional way -- bed, desk, dresser, bookshelf in parallel along the long walls -- but as far as Jane is concerned, it's perfect. There’s space that’s just hers and there’s no Harry. A pang of guilt shoots through her and she cringes at the shame of it. She’ll call, she will. Later. For now, she just wants a little time in this room.

And Stinky's things in it -- interesting. Odd. Interesting in that way that she didn't even realise they were interesting upon first glance. Mould in paper cups, which was disgusting and alarming to find, but also mould in petri dishes. Notebooks of experiment notes, not all of which were even in English. An honest to god skull? Textbooks for courses that aren't offered to sixth formers -- or possibly anyone? In what class do you study medieval vivisection? A history course or a science one? And there are things inside _Jane's_ dresser drawers, neat leatherbound kits full of sharp things, things that absolutely have to contraband, right? Stinky is more than a little bit into the macabre. It's going to be amazing or horrible having biology with this one.

Jane feels like more than a bit of a voyeur, a one woman invading army to this unsuspecting suite while her potentially very smelly roommate is at this moment, according to Mrs. Hudson, at triple chemistry. It's where Jane would be now if she weren't hellbent on moving in this very afternoon. Does this roommate know she's going to come back from chemistry and find a new roommate? Will she chew her up and spit her back out, like she has with her other roommates? Purportedly, anyway.

The room doesn't smell, at least, which is promising. She considers texting that to Harry but holds back in case Stinky really is some kind of sixth former vortex of halitosis and farts. God forbid.

By early afternoon, Jane's unearthed the most important bits of her material possessions: her iPod, her speakers for listening to music, and the books she brought over from America. She puts away clothes at a much more leisurely pace. Fuck it, right? Two more sodding years here. No need to rush.

 

****

 

At lunch, Mrs. Hudson stops Sherlock on the way to the library and asks her to join her in the faculty lounge. The other teachers quiet as they enter and pass through, nodding or chewing more slowly or averting their eyes completely. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson wind up in a crowded nook of a half galley kitchen, something between a neglected office and a forgotten filing cabinet, off to the side of the microwave and sink.

"Have a snack, Sherlock. Biscuit? Scone? I actually brought in extra mince pies this morning if you'd like any," Mrs. Hudson says. She takes an overlarge plate from the counter and offers it to Sherlock. Baked goods have been picked off of it by passing faculty, too busy to do much more than shove it in their mouths and move on. Sherlock takes a mince pie gingerly in her fingers and nibbles at it. They're better warm, she thinks with a pout she doesn’t let show.

"You didn't drag me in here to feed me up."

"Yes, well," Mrs. Hudson starts, head cocked as if sizing Sherlock up. "A new girl started with us this term, in the year above yours. A Miss Watson. I take it you haven't had the pleasure?"

Sherlock's incredulous scowl almost makes her drop a bit of pie from her mouth. "Can't say that I have, no."

"Well, there was a paperwork snafu, a misunderstanding with her...credentials from the last school she was in, and she's moving down to the lower sixth, taking AS classes now. She's also switching from the day programme to boarding."

Sherlock reflexively juts out her lower lip, annoyance running like cold water down her spine. "Mrs. Hudson, is that really wise? Surely you recall my track record with roommates."

"I know, Sherlock, but there's nothing to be done. She was quite adamant about moving to boarding if she was to remain here for the extra year. And you well know that yours is the only free bed in the dormitory. I'm sorry to say, dear, but she'll be moving her things into your suite by the end of the day today."

"Today? Already?" Something clenches and thuds in Sherlock's chest. "But she only got permission yesterday! Or this morning at the latest. Is she even at school today?"

Mrs. Hudson's brow crinkles in confusion. "I thought you didn't know who she was. How did you know -- oh never mind," she sighs heavily. "I know the roommate situation has been difficult for you in the past, Sherlock. But look at it this way." She squeezes Sherlock's shoulder in a half hug, and it's a sign of her emotional stupor that Sherlock lets it happen.

Most of a mince pie is still in her hand, but even so, her stomach feels like it's roiling.

"Maybe you could be friends with this one," Mrs Hudson sooths, voice light and thin.

-

That afternoon, Sherlock bolts out of chemistry to rush back to the dormitory.

When she arrives back at her suite, she is discomfited to find her door ajar. She holds down a physical flinch and approaches slowly, taking in the tinny rock music filtering in. The music grows as she nudges the door open and edges inside.

_I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike. I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like._

A dirty blonde girl, half disappeared in an oversized tee, stands in the centre of the room between the two beds. Hands on her hips as she surveys the half-unpacked cardboard box in front of her and the dozen or so hardback textbooks at her feet. She’s not in uniform. Her sleeves are rolled up and tucked into a tight hem encircling the tops of her biceps. But the rest of the shirt is shapeless, hanging loosely over jean shorts, cotton so old that the black is a soft grey. Lips moving but quiet, Sherlock realises. Singing along with the music.

"You say black, I say white -- oh!" She exclaims, jumping as she catches sight of Sherlock standing in the doorway.

Eyes, blue and wide, a peculiar shade of midnight so dark they'd be easily mistaken for brown if they weren't wide as saucers now.

"You surprised me," she says, recovering quickly, a bright laugh on the edge of her voice. She extends her hand for a handshake and Sherlock finds herself staring.

"You're Watson," Sherlock says.

Her smile falters a moment, flickering into surprise before recovering. "Jane," she corrects. Her hand hovers, still extended and waiting.

Sherlock takes it, gives it a short and businesslike shake.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock. I'm your new roommate."

"Yes," Sherlock says tersely. "If Mrs. Hudson hadn't already ambushed me to prepare me, I would have gathered as much from your presence and obvious fact of your moving in your belongings." She gives a dismissive wave of her hand at the room.

Jane smiles sheepishly, runs her fingers through her short hair. "Yes, sorry about that. I know it's sudden, but I'm afraid--"

"Yes, I gathered," Sherlock cuts in with a sigh. "You've been moved against your will to the lower sixth. Scholarship student, focus on biology. Interested in medicine, medical school. Recently returned from a stint abroad. America, if I had to hazard a guess. Desperate to move out of your brother's flat. Listen, I'd like to just inform you now--"

"I'm--I'm sorry, how did you -- how did you know all that? Mrs. Hudson told you all that?" Jane says, face contorted in appalled confusion.

Sherlock sighs. She can plot the rest of this conversation.

 

****

 

It's a slightly dizzying thought that Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a rundown of her new roommate to _that_ degree. Maybe Harry _should_ look into finding a solicitor.

"No one told me anything, I assure you," Sherlock says, lips pursing unhappily. "And I didn't know; I saw. I was passing by the administrative offices yesterday and overheard Mrs. Hudson using her soothing voice. Comforting a student: you. Though I didn't know it at the time. Believe me when I say that I'm very familiar with Mrs. Hudson's soothing voice," she says with hint of a sigh. "You demanded a spot in boarding, must have if they allowed you in here, as the extra bed in my room is the only free one in the girls' dormitories. Poor idea sectioning off Violet Hall for male students; not enough of them yet matriculating to fill the rooms and they refuse to make the building co-ed, despite promises of making this school a fully co-educational facility--"

"Yes, but--" Jane cuts in. Sherlock's essentially babbling now, eyes wandering from Jane to the wall to the floor and the bit of London sky through their window. Her eyes flit like she's bored of hearing herself talk, and she isn't even talking about the bits that Jane really wants to know. "The rest of it? How did you know about the scholarship? The--the biology? Medical school and--and recently returned and desperate to move out--"

Sherlock waves her hand and Jane shuts up. "Biology textbooks," Sherlock says in bored tones, pointing to the books on the ground by the bookcase. "A subject for which our school is known. But the Macmillan publisher -- English company, American imprint. University level but secondhand. Little yellow 'used' stickers on all of them." Sherlock bends down and flips through one. "A half dozen of them, editions all three years old at the most. That many in one collection? Likely bought at one time, abroad then; possibly ya started uni classes, or were interested them in the very least. And all here? Most likely brought over in a move. Could be a gift from a relative or someone, but unlikely, as you're here moving in by yourself and they're all quite battered, so unless your benefactor was similarly a spendthrift," Sherlock shrugs. "Always possible though. Either way, smart, dedicated, penny pinching. Suggests a scholarship student."

"And the desperate to move--"

"You're here after arguing vehemently with the headmistress to be let into boarding, are you not? For the least desirable bed in the school. And only two weeks into the school term. And your iPod is obviously a gift from your brother, with whom you obviously have issues." Sherlock points to the white and silver thing, three generations old, sitting in the battered iHome speakers.

Jane's gaze follows Sherlock's index finger and lands on the glinting silver back of the iPod, suddenly remembering the laser engraving Harry got for her.

 

 

> _To my darling sister,_
> 
> _Happy birthday. You're always welcome home._
> 
> _Love, Harry_

Fucking hell.

She turns her head to Sherlock, who's closing the textbook and putting it away with the others.

"That's...fantastic."

"S-sorry?" Sherlock face goes blank.

"That was amazing. You got all that from my iPod and some books?"

"Yes, well, I --" Sherlock starts. She pauses, looking genuinely perplexed. A whole new set of lines form in her face, and she looks a good deal younger all of a sudden, more her age. "That's not what people normally say."

"What?" Jane can't help but giggle. This is what's perplexed Sherlock Holmes? "What do people normally say?"

"Fuck off, you creepy cunt," Sherlock replies flatly, in tones so inconceivably posh and snooty that Jane laughs. She has to. This is ridiculous.

"I'm just going to --" Sherlock turns away and stands at the foot of her bed, dropping her bag on the desk next to it. For just a moment, she stands with her back turned to Jane, posture perfect and still. And then she turns slowly and Jane can make out her eyes scanning the top of Jane's dresser, which she had started to clear.

"Right, sorry about that," Jane blurts out, feeling wrong footed all over again. "I stopped putting my clothes away when I found your things in the drawers. I also started tidying up but then I realized--"

"That some of my rubbish lying about were experiments," Sherlock murmurs.

Jane nods, sheepish.

"Sorry about that, but they were mould."

"Look," Sherlock starts again with a sigh. "I thought I should just inform you now. I don't know if you heard anything about my history with classmates or roommates." Jane starts to open her mouth but Sherlock charges ahead. "Some of it's true and much of it isn't. I've never lit anyone on fire and I only have a clinical, purely scientific interest in necrofasciitis." Sherlock holds up a hand to stave off Jane's response. "But what is definitely true is that people and I don't get along. I've been here four years and there's a reason why I'm in a suite by myself."

Jane nods slowly. "Right, well. You're a bit brusque, I can see that. Just talking with you is a bit like playing a contact sport I don't know the rules to."

Sherlock takes a breath, runs her finger on the edge of the Petri dish closest to her.

"But you seem cool."

Jane immediately regrets her words. Lord above, _cool_? Is there anything _less_ cool than saying the word _cool_? And at first, Sherlock's face seems to agree with Jane's thoughts on that count. Her heart sinks. Great first day. Great.

"You won't last the month." Sherlock's face is just a bit...slack. Unreadable but strangely...intense. Jane finds herself staring back at her and this strange conversation, this moment in which they lock eyes, seems to stretch just then, like they've sunk underwater in the calmest possible way. Jane licks her lips despite herself.

"Is that a prediction? Or a challenge?"

 _Christ_ , that did not come out right.

Fine muscles around Sherlock's eyes that Jane doesn't know the names for yet constrict and seem to blaze as she processes Jane's words.

"Interesting," Sherlock murmurs.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm sorry to do the WIP thing to you, but I'm trying my best. I'm taking comfort in the fact that I have a lot of support from my beta and others. I do have rather long range plans for this story; this is literally a prologue story that I wanted to write up for the ultimate story that's been bouncing around my head for...well, years at this point. But I'm new to the longfic game, and I hope you are patient with me as I try to hammer out this story.
> 
> I do what research I can, but I could really use a britpicker. So if you're up for it, I'd love to hear from you. You can talk to me on [tumblr](http://avawatson.tumblr.com) or by email at avawtsn@gmail.com.


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